


Are You Coming To The Tree?

by TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan



Category: Fall Out Boy, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Forbidden Love, Homophobia, Hunger Games, M/M, Poverty, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-06-28 21:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15715557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan/pseuds/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan
Summary: Set in The Hunger Games universe, obviously before Katniss and the Rebellion.Patrick Stumph is a seventeen-year-old lumber worker in District 7.Pete is a Capitol stylist.Three guesses how they meet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't decided what year of the Hunger Games this will be. Probably like 72 or 73.

 

Patrick Stumph rolled over sleepily with a weary groan as the first light of dawn touched his eyes. He’d give anything to sleep in, to give mornings a pass indefinitely, but the work never stopped in District 7. The work never stopped anywhere, except maybe the Capitol, he supposed. They needed their fancy, polished dining chairs and tables, their window sills, and their mantels upon which to rest professional photos (in wooden frames, a waste of good trees if Patrick had ever heard of one) of their coddled, spoiled offspring who would eventually just grow up to become large children in hideous, overdone makeup, wigs, and costumes—just hordes of painted dolls who had no idea how their world really worked. 

How else could you explain the rabid fervor that surrounded the Hunger Games every year? Only the truly ignorant and the completely ruthless and sadistic could ever enjoy watching children kill each other over and over again. 

Patrick knew the difference: President Snow was ruthless. His subjects, the Capitol citizens, were ignorant. This was by design, of course, to keep things exactly as they were. 

Wincing, he rubbed his eyes with the fingertips of one hand, then threw the covers off and sat up. He passed a hand over his fine strawberry hair, which stood up in a massive cowlick on one side.  _I need to stop going to bed with wet_ _hair_ , he chided himself for easily the hundredth time this week. He’d just been so damned exhausted after his bath, which always came hard on the heels of ten hours of chopping, hauling, and carting logs back and forth between the seemingly endless forests of his District and the trains that hauled them off to the woodworkers and craftspeople for their fashioning into much prettier things.  

Patrick was sure he’d even once seen carved wooden horses, lions, and dogs for children to play make-believe with, now that he thought on it more. 

He stood and stretched with a yawn and an airy sigh, then went into the bathroom to clean up a little before he got dressed.  

After fighting with his newfound cowlick for a good five minutes, he gave up and just crammed his stocking cap over it, mashing the whole thing down. Who cared whether he slept with a wet head and woke up looking like the victim of a half-blind Capitol stylist who had given up on him without finishing? 

He gave himself a wry smirk in the mirror and then headed to the kitchen, where his mother had been hard at work for an hour already.  

“Morning, Rick,” she chirped, tucking a lock of reddish-gold hair behind her ear. She set a large, scrambled egg and a few assorted berries in front of him, and he smiled, wide-eyed. 

“Mom, where did you get these?” he asked as he tucked in hungrily. The egg was thick with milk, and the berries were a bit underripe, on the sour side, but a welcome treat anyway. 

She sighed and put a hand on her hip. “Well, your father—“ 

“Stepfather,” Patrick corrected out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Your  _step_ father,” she went on in an annoyed tone, “traded for a couple of goose eggs in town.” She didn’t say for what, and Patrick didn’t have to ask. Bay and his buddies often hunted illegal game up in the hillier areas, away from the lumber yards, sitting around shooting animals and drinking graf while Patrick and his coworkers toiled away hauling logs off to their imminent beautification. Their  _repurposing_ , maybe.

_I’d like to repurpose a few people,_  Patrick thought sourly,  _starting with President Snow and ending with Bay Hendricks._

He had no great love for his stepfather. While the man had never been cruel, he wasn’t particularly warm, either. Also, he never helped the other woodsmen with the lumber loads. Granted, he always provided fresh meat for Patrick and his mother, and he’d taught Patrick a little about how to play Poker (more like how to cheat at Poker), but he wasn’t exactly David Stumph.

_No one could ever be like my Dad_ , Patrick thought, reminiscing about the way he and his father would play guitar together, how they would write songs and sing them, harmonizing and strumming happily, laughing around a fire on clement nights.

But then, David had been jumped and murdered after playing songs that protested the Capitol and the Games while busking one afternoon. It had been made to look like a robbery, his pockets turned out and his guitar stolen, but the precision of the blows to his head and kidneys suggested Peacekeepers.

Plus, they’d left one or two of the small trinkets he’d earned beside his body. No common thief would ever leave even one scrap.

"Patrick? Patrick!" his mother called as she snapped her fingers in his face. He blinked and came back to himself to find his own eyes staring expectantly at him. "It's time to go, baby."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not a baby," he groused, but he didn't resist when she cradled his head and kissed his temple.

"Go on," she said fondly. "The trees are waiting."

"They're not going anywhere," he retorted. "In fact, it seems like no matter how much we send off, the same number or more are back within a week."

Patricia shook her head. "Stop being so melodramatic and go to work, boy." There was no venom in her admonition, but Patrick gave a heavy, put upon sigh as he pulled on his coat and kissed her goodbye.

"Thank you for the egg," Patrick murmured.

"Thank Bay when you see him." She smiled.

_**If**  I see him_. Patrick smirked, and Patricia saw something of his disdain in it, but she just turned him around by the shoulders and gently pushed him out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

 

"How's it coming?" Saphir Neveu asked over lunch, which today was roasted duck, herb-roasted potatoes, and sauteed asparagus with Hollandaise sauce. She buttered a roll, her eyes--one purple, one blue--never leaving the task at hand. She was trying for casual, but Pietrus "Pete" Wentz knew better than that. They were competing Stylists for the Hunger Games, and he was having none of her espionage.

He shook his head, and his orange-gold bangs fell in his eyes, which were darkened with black contacts. "Saph, you know I can't tell you that."

She shrugged and popped half the roll in her mouth. Pete watched the dance of her brown hands with her purple-and-blue manicure, done to match her half-purple-half-blue hair, which was rolled on top of her head in a complicated twist that made her head look like candy. "Can't blame a girl for trying, Pete," she said simply, without venom or disappointment.

"I don't know what you're worried about. You have District 1. The Careers always turn heads, even if you put them in burlap rags." Pete took a leg of duck and relished the delicate crisp of the skin. 

"That does have the merit of never having been tried," Saph observed wistfully. "If only it were that easy," she added with a fake put-upon sigh.

"At least you don't have the fun little chore of trying to make something interesting out of District 7. I'll be damned if I dress them as trees yet again, like everyone else." He threw the now-bare duck leg bone down on his plate, irritated.

"Just don't do woodsmen again, either. They hate the flannel." A lock of purple hair fell beautifully by her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear almost absently. Nothing Saphir ever did was absent or thoughtless, though, and Pete knew it. Everything about her was carefully orchestrated, meticulously thought out, to be absolutely perfect. How else had she snagged District 1 her first year? 

And whatever she chose for the Careers, it would be equally as calculated and perfect.

Though technically they should have been rivals, they were best friends, ever since their childhood in the Capitol. They'd always watched the Hunger Games together, placing friendly bets on who they thought would win, and of course, commenting on the Tributes' various costumes. Saph always wanted the winner to be a girl, until she was fifteen and suddenly noticing the handsome boys. The joy of her friendship with Pete was that he noticed the handsome boys with her. When the time came for their first trip to a hairdresser, they'd gone together, matching mops of springy, coarse hair to be tamed accordingly. Pete had kept his bangs long, flattened over his eyes, which he refused to alter permanently, and bleached the under portion of his bangs so he could change them to whatever color he felt like. He'd started with red, his favorite color, and Saph had chosen red on one side only, leaving the other its natural jet black. 

Over time, they'd gone together to evolve their respective looks, and while Saph had gotten more and more adventurous and cartoonish, more typical of a model "Capitol Citizen", Pete had opted to keep his choices a little closer to the truth. He didn't like the idea of hiding himself under too many trappings and flash. He felt like he was plenty flashy enough on his own. He'd also never really developed the accent or dialect of his fellow Citizens, and he caught more than a little flak for that, too.

The difference between them was never more stark than now, though, when Saphir was obviously opting to win, while Pete wanted to make a  _statement_. What kind of statement, he wasn't entirely sure, but he knew he wanted to say something about the brutality of the Games, about promoting beauty and tranquility instead of death, about finding another way to keep order than such senseless, cruel violence.

Pete wondered how he could sit here, comfortably enjoying a delicious lunch while out in the Districts, they were literally fighting tooth and nail for survival. It didn't feel right. He knew he had to be careful, though, being in the Capitol and this close to President Snow. He had to play it as though he were like all the other Citizens, spoiled and coddled and ignorant of what was really happening outside their little bubble.

He hated even having to hide his true motives from his best friend, but he really didn't feel like he could trust anyone.

"Pietrus!" Saph called, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Come in, Wentz."

He blinked and looked up to find her waving her butter knife at him reprovingly. "What is it? What's cooking in that brain of yours?"

Again, he said, "Saphir, I wish I could share, but you know I can't."

"Hmm. Well, if we can't talk about the Hunger Games or our sartorial choices, then what are we to discuss?" She went back to sawing on her asparagus, and Pete's mind flashed on District 7.The lush autumnal forests he'd seen on the broadcasts--the deep greens, the stark blood reds, the rusty orange, and the sunny yellows--were giving him an idea. He filed it away for later, and found something he could say.

"Oh my gosh, Saph, did you  _see_  Gaiden Whitefeather's hair yesterday? He looks like a bird threw up on his head!" Pete grinned and gave a braying laugh.

Saph joined him now. "Oh yeah. I mean, I know avian features are in, but I was thinking maybe some gold eyes or a few, you know,  _white feathers_?" She snickered. "Not that weird nest thing he has! I feel so badly for whomever will be Reaped from District 4!"

_I feel badly for them anyway_ , Pete bit back as he managed to turn his rueful expression to one of haughty contempt. "At least Tarek and Ridge will provide some decent eye candy."

"Ridge Tsosie? Are you kidding?" She scoffed and helped herself to some tiramisu. "You can have him. I'll keep Tarek."

Pete bit into an apple, shifted the mouthful to his cheek, and said, "You're quick to take ownership of a guy you've never even spoken to."

"Well, just wait until I do," Saph challenged. She took a bite of her dessert, rolled her eyes in pleasure, and observed airily, "Pity the Games are the only taste the Tributes have of things like this."

Pete stared at the bone and remnants of asparagus on his own plate forlornly. "Yeah, it really is."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a bit to this chapter, which I hope makes it more worth the read.

As the woods drew nearer and eventually enshrouded him, Patrick could hear the usual shouting and banter among the cutters and haulers.

"TIMBERRRRRRRRRR!"

"You don't have to yell that every time, Catton!"

"Well, look out, then, will ya, Snell?"

"Who yanked my ax, now?"

"No one's lookin' to yank on yer anything, Gilford!"

Patrick bit the inside of his cheek and steeled himself for the wave of ribbing that greeted him every morning.

"Well, except for maybe our hero, Stumpy!"

"Mornin', Stumpy! We saved you all the wee baby trees!"

"My ax is bigger than that'un."

"Shit, Stumpy, I thought you were already here!" (This always said while pointing at an actual stump, of which there were always plenty.)

With an eye roll, he gave his usual retort: "Har har, Reggie, you're so very clever. What will you think of next?"

"Ay, watch how you hold yer ax handles, boys," came the low mutter from Reggie in someone's ear. "You'll give him ideas."

Patrick gritted his teeth and stormed past the snickering men to take his annoyance out on one of the pines where a couple of the women were working. The women didn't give him nearly so much grief.

"Morning, Rick," one of them said. "How's your Ma?"

"Hey, Christa," he murmured. "She's good. You know, same ol' Ma."

"She's a good lady," the other woman, Loura, chimed in. "And you're a good boy. Don't mind those clods." She paused to clap him on the shoulder with  wide, meaty hand.

Patrick blushed. "Thanks, Loura. Thank you both."

"It's sad when a simple how-do-ya-do is so rare to be met with such gratitude." Christa shook her head sadly.

They spent the morning that way, chopping, hauling, and generally taking the piss out of each other (well, the men did anyway), before sitting for a brief lunch in a clearing. Patrick wolfed down some dried rabbit meat and a few more berries, wincing at the sour taste, then got up and headed back as soon he washed it down with a mouthful of water. There were a few snickers as he got up and left. 

"How is a flit like you so bothered with the taste of underripe fruit, eh? I'd think you've tasted worse!"

"Heading back to work already, you little Capitol swat?"

"Hoping Snow will let you suck his--"

"Lads, just because Patrick has better taste than to fraternize with you louts, there's no need to be bitter!" Loura hollered, and the hearty laughter of burly, strong women followed him back into the shade, which was better than the taunts of the men.

It was the same every day, but it still stung sometimes.

When he got to a decent-looking elm and started chopping, swallowing around the lump in his throat, a voice startled him. "You don't like them very much, either, do you?" Patrick peered around the trunk to see a young girl, pale and small like him, although she was still taller. Her mousy brown hair hung in two braids from under her wool cap, and she looked at him with bright, inquisitive blue-gold eyes, not unlike his own. "I'm Hayley," she offered.

"Patrick," he grunted as he swung at the trunk again. Hayley stepped back. "And no, I suppose I don't like most of the guys very much. Not the mouthier ones, anyway. I'd rather just do the work, pass the time, and go home." 

She curled her hands around her ax and nodded toward the tree. Patrick shrugged a shoulder and swung again. Hayley took up the other side. "They're not all bad, but... I stay away, too."

He rested his blade down by his feet for a moment, panting, and wiped sweat from his brow with his wrist. "Besides, is it really worth making any friends in Panem when I'm not yet 19?" he snapped.

Hayley flinched, but nodded. "I know what you mean. Anyone could be Reaped."

Patrick nodded in agreement, a resigned look on his face. "Pretty much." He took a swing. "If we don't starve to death in the meantime. So, why do you stay away?"

"Same reason, just not worth it," she retorted and took a hefty swing.

Patrick was impressed with her strength. He shrugged and gave a sheepish half-smile, but he didn't say anything.

Hayley sighed. "Mostly it's that I don't need to hear another round of how I'm too small and sweet to be out here, I should be home with my Ma, and all that. I hate cooking and cleaning and tending house! I'd rather be out here in the fresh air. Besides, there's plenty of other women out here."

"Well, some of the men are intimidated by it, especially if the girl--er, woman--is at all pretty. The ones that have stuck around have just had to endure a lot of poking fun and, well, earn their stripes, I guess."

"So do you really not prefer women?" Hayley blurted without thinking about it.

Patrick shook his head. "Not really. No offense," he added hastily.

She shrugged. "None taken."

"Well that's... three people that doesn't offend," he snarked and swung harder. It jarred up his arms to his shoulders, but he kept chopping anyway. He gritted his teeth, sweat rolling down his neck, and struck again. And again. And again. "They think I can't... be a man, because I'm not like them. I work every bit as hard, harder even. I provide for my Ma and keep us in supplies. I do what I'm supposed to do." There was a tremor in his voice and his eyes were stinging. He threw his ax on the ground with a thump. “I do what I’m supposed to do.”

Hayley came up beside him and touched his shoulder. When he didn't push her away, she gathered him into a hug. "We all do. I think that's the problem," Hayley said softly.

Slowly, he raised his arms to hug her back.

******

“Patrick Martin Stumph,” Patricia called the moment he got in the door. He knew what the use of his middle name meant, so he gave a weary sigh and trudged to the kitchen. “Take your filthy boots off,” she scolded as she waved a dishrag at his feet. Patrick stooped, untied his boots, and kicked them off to the side of the entryway. “Thank you,” she said in an annoyed tone. “Now, would you mind explaining this?”

Patrick frowned, even as he yawned out his exhaustion. “Explain what?”

She gestured at their meager kitchen table—really just a large wooden slat over two sawhorses with a moth-eaten tablecloth—where a can of kerosene sat with some pouches of grain and a box of root vegetables.

“Those… would be… supplies?” he drawled, trying to play dumb.

“Don’t you avoid what you know damned well I’m asking you, boy,” Patricia barked as tears sprang to her eyes. “We already got our rations this month. What is this?” She clenched her jaw as she approached and put her hands on her son’s face. “You put your name in the lottery again, didn’t you?”

“Ma, I haven’t been chosen in five years,” Patrick groused, lowering his head. “I did what I had to do to get us extra supplies.” He paused, trying to bite back the tears in his own eyes. “I did what I’m supposed to do for you. I’m supposed to help you.”

“How many times?” Patricia pressed. “How many times did you re-enter that cursed drawing to get us  _vegetables_?” Her voice rose in a near-desperate stage-whisper that would have been comical if Patrick didn’t know she was only trying to keep from screaming. “Fresh ones, no less?” Patrick still wouldn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her. “ _How many times?_ ”

“Four,” he finally told his socks, though he couldn’t see them clearly anymore as they blurred with hot, shameful tears. “I put my name in four extra times so we could have supplies.”

“Sounds like you’re finally showing some backbone,” Bay’s slurring voice interjected from the back doorway. He held his crossbow on his shoulder, and in his other hand he dragged a burlap sack bulging with the day’s yield. He put his gear down and clapped Patrick on the shoulder with a grimy hand. “Being a man.”

Patricia snatched Bay’s wrist and pried him off. “Don’t you say that,” she admonished, pointing a finger in his face. “Don’t you act like my son putting his life on the chopping block in those Games is in any way brave or honorable! It’s downright barbaric!”

Bay Hendricks scoffed and lowered her hand out of his face with his palm. “Patty, that boy acts like the weakest little namby I’ve ever seen, just like his dear ol’ Da.” He narrowed his eyes, liquor reeking on his breath as he approached Patrick. “You can’t sit around crying and playing your stupid songs like a child forever. Gotta stop clinging to your Ma’s skirts like a spoiled little milksop and be—”

Patrick gritted his teeth and raised his gaze to meet his stepfather’s, blue-gold eyes blazing with fury. The man was easily almost a foot taller, and about two hands wider, but Patrick could not have given less of a damn if he’d borrowed one. “If you tell me to be a  _‘man’_ ,” he put air quotes around this word, “or slag on my father one more time, I’ll punch your nasty mouth.”

Bay threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, I’d love to see you try it, ya little flit.”

It was then that the boy saw red. Patrick had never courted anyone, had never had time, energy, or really any interest in anyone in Seven, so in theory, it shouldn’t matter what or whom he liked. But the fact that something so irrelevant, so _personal_ , kept being lobbed at him like a grenade, like he was wrong just for existing, made everything else fade into the haze as his fist flew. It connected with Bay’s jaw, and his head swung to the side, but he held his balance. When he faced his stepson again, there was a blooming red mark, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Bay waggled his lower mandible back and forth, and then smirked. “Not bad, boy,” he grumbled, balling his fists and putting one foot behind him. A fighting stance. “Let’s see what else you got.”

Patricia thrust herself between them, Patrick behind her. “Bay, stop it, you drunk lout! Leave my son alone and go sleep it off!”

With a roar, Bay shoved Patricia aside, and she went flying against the counter. “Don’t you tell me my business, woman. This whimpering sop needs to be taught a lesson—” He’d bent himself forward, ready to lunge for Patrick, and the boy saw his chance. His fist flew again, fueled with years of bottling his rage and chopping wood. This time, it caught Bay on the chin. It set him off balance, and he fell to one knee. Patrick hadn’t been in a real fight before, but he knew an opportunity when it presented itself. He raised his foot and kicked furiously with all his might, and Bay fell to the floor, dazed.

“Get out of this house, _now_ ,” he ordered, his voice low and even.

“What are you on about?” Bay growled. “I’m the man of this house. You don’t order me.”

“ _We_ took you in with _us_. That makes me the man of this house, like it or not, and I’m telling you get out. Get away from my mother, and never come back here again.” Patrick loomed over Bay’s crumpled form.

“You wouldn’t last a week without me,” Bay warned. “I put meat on this table.”

Patricia pulled herself back to her feet and said, “We were doing fine for quite some time before I stupidly welcomed you into our home, and we’ll do without you from here on out.” Bay gaped at her in utter bewilderment. “You heard my son. Get out of here, and never come back, Bay Hendricks.”

“Patricia, I—” Bay was cut off by the swing of a large knife.

“ _I said, get out!_ ” she screamed as she held the weapon out in front of her.

Bay got to his feet, took his crossbow, and then reached for the sack.

“Leave the bag,” Patrick barked, and Patricia moved toward it and took it, never lowering the knife.

“You won’t last a week without me,” he repeated weakly, “and you won’t last five minutes in those games… _flit_.” He spat this last with a narrowing of his icy eyes on Patrick.

“It’s no concern of yours what happens to us anymore,” Patrick retorted. “Get out.”

Bay stood and slowly backed away, unable to comprehend what had just happened to him. “No one kicks me out,” he stated as though it were obvious. Patrick and Patricia didn’t lower their stances. “No one kicks me out!” he hollered. His eyes were glassy with drink and indignant tears.

Finally, when the night air hit him, he turned and wandered off, mumbling angrily about how no one kicked him out. The two finally relaxed, and let out a simultaneous breath and hefted the sack of Bay’s kills onto the table.

“He’ll be back, you know,” Patrick murmured as they pulled out a quail, a couple of squirrels, and half a young deer.

Patricia took the sack to the sink and began to wash out the inside. “I don’t doubt it,” she replied softly. “I can trade the squirrels for some bread tomorrow. The rest will last us at least a week, if we can keep it cold.”

“I don’t think that will be an issue,” Patrick said as he closed the back door against the frosty late-fall air. “Best we roast it, though, rather than trying to store it raw, in any case. It’ll last longer.”

“Don’t you tell me my business, boy,” Patricia growled in a mockery of her ex-partner. She threw her hands on her hips and strutted back and forth like an angry rooster, flapping her elbows. “Just don’t you dare tell me MY business! Be a man! Be a big preening bully like me!”

They both burst out in laughter, a welcome break from the tension. “Well, with an act like that, you and I best be traveling performers,” Patrick managed as he knuckled tears from his eyes. He wasn’t sure if they were from laughing, or from what had come before it, but he was glad the whole thing was done for now.

“I’m sorry,” Patricia blurted out, her face falling. “I’m so sorry, Patrick. For everything.” Her lip trembled. “I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t, Ma.” He went to her and hugged her. “You didn’t know. He fools people. That’s what he does. You didn’t know.”

After a few moments, she composed herself, then pulled away and straightened her dress. “Right. Now, let’s get this prepared and stored properly, shall we?”

They went to work in companionable silence, carving, cleaning, and roasting. They ate some with their newly acquired fresh vegetables, and then Patrick cleaned up and fell into a deep sleep, plagued with dreams of Bay, of the Games, and of his mother’s tears. Still, he did not wake until well after dawn the next day, and his mother did not rouse him. For the first time in months, if not years, Patrick went to the woods feeling recharged, feeling like he had reserves he could pull from for the day.

_It might only be today, but right now, that’s all I’m promised, anyway. That’s all I need._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also updated the previous chapter a little bit so if you found that disappointing you may want to look back at it again

Finally alone in his studio, Pete flipped to a clean page in his sketch pad, and pulled out a pencil. He quickly sketched the outline of a man and then began designing an outfit that drew on the vision in his head of the overhead shots of Seven. He had a tunic and trousers for the male, a long gown for the female, and matching headpieces. He filled it all in with the vibrant colors in his mind’s eye, and then smiled, satisfied. It would be good for the opening ceremonies.

Creating always made him feel a bit less sad, like there was something over which he had some control.

Now that his designs were committed to paper, Pete felt restless to get them made, but he couldn’t until he knew who the Tributes would be, and they could be measured. What if these colors didn’t become them at all? He didn’t see how; most everyone looked good in forest colors. Still, he worried. What if the reality was nothing like the platonic conception he had in his head of his Tributes riding into the Capitol wearing his creations?

He took a strawberry from the bowl next to his desk, bit in, and frowned when a drop of juice plopped onto the face of the male Tribute in his drawing.

What did it even matter when the only color anyone ended up wearing, in the end, was red?

Pete wondered if they ate strawberries in the Districts. He wondered what they had for breakfast, if they’d like chocolate truffles, if they’d ever even once had his favorite roasted duck with crispy skin. He wondered what it was like to go without food for more than an hour. He wondered if they drank champagne, or even carbonated tonics. What was a wedding like in the Districts? Was it different if you were in Four versus Eight? What about the Seam? Did they throw charcoal dust on each other instead of rice? Did they even get married, really? What kind of music did they like in District Five? What was a birthday feast like in Three? Had anyone outside the Capitol ever even had birthday cake?

 _This isn’t fair_ , Pete thought, and wiped his forearm across his stinging eyes. _I hate being a part of this._

He went to a window overlooking the city and saw everyone bustling about in their brightly colored outfits and wigs, laughing and chatting and eating, without a care in the world. He caught his own reflection: eyeliner smeared, golden bangs hanging over his golden skin and into his sad, black eyes.

 _Spoiled, callous, useless. All of us._ He ground his teeth as he watched the crowds. _Not a care for what’s really going on._

Another thought plagued him: _And just what do you, an artist, intend to do about it?_ It wasn’t as though he’d ever even ventured outside the Capitol. He’d had no reason to, ostensibly. What could he possibly do from here?

He fingered his hair out of his eyes, sighed, and thought, _I suppose I’ll know when the opportunity presents itself._

As if on cue, the Anthem began blaring throughout the square, and Pete knew it was echoing throughout the Districts, as well. He felt his blood simmering at President Snow appeared on the large screen outside, as well as on every monitor in every home in Panem, even projected onto the night sky in the poorer Districts.

“Greetings, Citizens of Panem,” Snow began in his usual falsely cheery tone. “It is my honor and privilege to remind you that the Reaping for the 66th Annual Hunger Games will be one week from today. As most of you know, all children between the ages of twelve and eighteen must present to their District main square, be properly accounted for, and witness the drawing along with all of the residents of the Districts. One male and one female will be randomly chosen, and they will be required to participate in the Hunger Games, unless someone else volunteers to take their place. However, there must be one male Tribute and one female Tribute from each District.

“Please remember that the Reaping, the Hunger Games, and all the ceremonies and interviews surrounding it are mandatory viewing for all Citizens and residents of Panem, so that we may never forget the defeat of the Districts that attempted to rise up against the power of the Capitol so many years ago. Good luck, and May The Odds Be Ever In Your Favor.”

 _Odds? What odds? The house always wins,_ Pete thought sourly.

He put in his orders for fabric and ornamentation, so that at least he could do a trial run for color before his Tributes were assigned to him.

_It’s like dressing them for their funerals._

******

As soon as the announcement from Snow was concluded, Patricia turned her glassy eyes onto her son. “Patrick. You’ve traded your life fourfold for tesserae! Please tell me this isn’t true.”

He shrugged and looked away. “Technically, I didn’t. It’s not automatic. I just increased my chances of being Reaped a little. My name is already in there six times, and I put it in four more, so… technically, I only increased my chances by two-thirds.”

She put her hands on his shoulders. “This isn’t a joke.”

He pushed away from her. “You’re right. It’s math.”

“Stop making light of this!” Patricia cried in frustration. “They’ll take you away from me!”

“Ma, I haven’t been Reaped yet, and you have four more years of tesserae. What does it even matter anyway? I have no life here. No… friends, no… no one to court… everyone here hates me.” Patrick turned away and looked around the kitchen floor, as though searching it for something he’d lost.

“But _I_ love you! Haven’t you thought about that? Don’t you know what losing you would do to me? Patrick, you’re all I have left now!” She started sobbing.

“Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t have had children in the first place, so you wouldn’t have to worry about sending them into the Games!” Patrick roared. “I didn’t ask to be a child in Panem! I didn’t ask to be… different from everyone else! I didn’t ask for any of this!” He glared at his mother, and she didn’t respond. Her face was a portrait of shock. When he spoke again, his tone was cold, measured, and cruel, the same one he’d used on Bay the night before. “But, then again, my life is all you have to bargain with, isn’t it? Without children to offer up to the Capitol, you don’t have any leverage to feed yourself. Is that why you had me?”

Patricia blinked in disbelief at her son, who so suddenly seemed to be a stranger to her. “Patrick, _my_ Patrick, how could you even _think_ that? How could you think that your father or I…” She trailed off, unable to finish the horrible thought.

“What else am I supposed to think?” he asked, his voice suddenly small again. “What other reason would there be for bringing a child into this world, knowing what could happen to us?”

Patricia took a step closer to her son. “Your father and I loved each other, and we loved you. We _wanted_ you, Patrick. Yes, we knew what that could mean, but we thought… we thought...”

“That the odds were ever in your favor?” Patrick mocked the Capitol accent and laughed darkly. “It doesn’t work that way, Ma. The deck is stacked, and the House always wins.”

Patricia threw her arms around him now, and they cried on each other’s shoulders. “I don’t want to lose you, Patrick.”

“It doesn’t matter what we want,” he muttered. “Sooner or later, the House always wins.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Welcome, welcome everyone, to the Reaping for the 72nd Hunger Games!” The stilted, falsely cheery voice of Cessna Gardinier, the Escort for District 7, rang out over the crowd of clean, but blandly dressed families gathered in the Main Square. She was a frilly fop of a woman with a lime green bouffant, bright green eyeshadow and lipstick on her starkly white painted face, and a matching lime green jacket and skirt with a gold lamé blouse.

Patrick and Patricia stood near the barricade, his right hand clutched tightly in both of hers. He’d spotted Hayley a bit down his row, and she’d smiled and waved as though they were friends.

_Nice of her to pretend_ , he’d thought glumly. He’d waved back anyway, though.

“We are so pleased to have you all gathered here for this important event commemorating Panem’s glorious victory over the rebel uprising so many years ago. For anyone who may not know, we will select the name of one boy and one girl to represent District 7 as Tributes in  _The Hunger Games_.” She said the title as though it were the name of a children’s bedtime story. “When your name is called, please come forward and join me on the platform. After the name is called, if one is so moved, another boy or girl may volunteer to take their place in  _The Hunger Games_.” There was that tone again, as though this were at all thrilling and not terrifying. “Best of luck to you all, and _May The Odds Be Ever In Your Favor_.

“As always, ladies first,” she trilled, almost more like a schoolyard taunt, as she reached into the glass ball to her left. “The female Tribute for District 7 is… Rosaleen Burgin.”

A sorrowful wail rose up from somewhere in the crowd as a tall girl with chocolate skin and long, springy hair gathered at the base of her neck with a piece of rawhide began silently making her way forward, head down. The source of the cry, ostensibly her mother, reached after her, clawing at the fabric of her tunic. A young boy with a matching complexion cried harshly and begged the girl not to go.

Rosaleen turned, took the hand that grabbed at her, and dropped it, shaking her head. A wide, strong man who bore the same nose and high cheekbones as the girl, clearly her father, took the weeping woman and boy in his arms handily. She favored him with a small, grateful little quirk of her lips and continued forward while her parents looked on in anguish. The boy had buried his face in his mother’s shoulder and was shuddering violently.

Once she mounted the platform next to Cessna, the Escort shook her hand with a big, garish smile that looked more menacing than welcoming. “Lovely, just lovely,” she cooed in that strange accent. “And now, for the gentlemen,” she chirped as she pranced away from Rosaleen to the glass ball on her right. “The male Tribute for District 7 is… Patrick Stumph.” She mispronounced the name, giving the “ph” an unnecessary “ff” sound, but everyone knew the name, anyway.

He winced, willing it not to be real. Cessna called his name again after a few seconds, so he opened his eyes and sighed. The platform and the people on it wavered slightly, and there was a whooshing in his ears as he fought to catch his breath. Patricia clutched her son’s hand tighter, weaving her fingers in with his, tethering him to reality. Her face was an impossible mash of features, twisted in agony and spinning in his panic. He kissed her hand, tears shining in his eyes, and then pulled his own hand free. A low, smug “Hmph” reached his ears from the back, followed by a few self-important snickers, and Patrick was certain it was Reggie Gilford and his crowd.

_Probably happy to be rid of a little flit like me_ , he thought.

Just then, there was a screech from somewhere to his right: “NO!”

He whirled to see Hayley pushing down the row between the people and the barricade, making her way to Patrick with a terror-struck expression. Her face was soaked with tears. “No,” she moaned again as she grabbed his forearms. “I wish I could go in your place.” She launched herself into his arms and hugged him tightly. “I wish I could go for you.” She broke into fresh sobs on his shoulder as he slowly put his arms around her.

“Why?” he found himself asking, not really sure why it even mattered, but he needed to know.

“You’re good,” she mumbled against his tunic. “There aren’t a lot of good people.”

Patrick pulled back and looked at Hayley’s red, puffy, tear-streaked face. “Rosaleen’s probably good, too. If you want to save someone, there’s your chance.”

“I, I just didn’t expect it to be you,” she stammered, and looked back at her mother. “I… I mean, I’m all my Ma’s got. The Burgins still have a son. But you’re all your Ma has, too.”

It didn’t completely make sense, and that was because it was all rationalizations and justifications for the same thing: she was too scared to volunteer. He couldn’t blame her; he didn’t want to go, either, and was still praying for someone to volunteer in his place. He was only seventeen. He’d never fallen in love, or played his songs for anyone, or tried real cake with sugar and icing. So many things others take for granted, he would never do _(well, I may just get to have cake at some point in the days before I’m brutally murdered by a Career_ ). But why should someone else give up their chance at a longer life, just to spare him?

“Patrick?” Cessna warned. “Time’s wasting.” She smiled, but the smile was predatory, like the one she gave Rosaleen. “There will be time for goodbyes after.”

He extricated himself from Hayley and his mother and mounted the platform to stand to Cessna’s right. She took his and Rosaleen’s hands and held them aloft. “And here we have our District 7 Tributes! Happy Hunger Games!” she announced, triumphant.

******

Pete watched the Reaping for District 7, as was required, from the comfort of his Capitol apartment, and was astonished at the contempt the boy’s neighbors showed. He heard the laughing and snickering from the older men in the back, and could only gape in horror as the short, pale boy was brought up to the stage with the tall, dark-skinned girl, and they were displayed like trophies to the other District residents. The girl’s face was stony, a portrait of resolve, but the boy, Patrick... Pete saw he was trying to hold his composure, but his mouth quivered, and his eyes were shiny and red-rimmed. Color splotched his cheeks and neck.

Pete’s heart felt like it was breaking in two at the sight of him, at hearing the other men laugh at him. What could he possibly have done to garner such disdain among his own? He looked broad and strong, like the other lumber workers, but his face was smooth and unlined, and he had no real facial hair apart from his strawberry sideburns and long, swooping bangs. He looked so young, so…  _innocent_.

He surveyed the rest of his District with a bizarre mixture of terror and rage. Pete wished he could hug him, that he could have a word with whoever was laughing and ask them why. Why would you laugh at this terrified person marching off to their doom? How on Earth is that funny?

The broadcast cut off just then, and Pete found himself wiping his stinging eyes. That boy. That poor, scared, angry boy. He’d be picked off in a matter of minutes, if he couldn’t gather his wits.

Pete’s telephone beeped at him just then, and he picked it up.

“Well, looks like you have your work cut out for you, pun intended,” Saphir mocked with her stilted accent, before Pete could even utter a syllable.

He gave a barking laugh. “Yeah, I guess I do. Those two couldn’t be more different. But, I think I can make it work.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep bragging, little wunderkind,” she retorted, and her eye-roll was almost audible over the line.

“Hey, I’m not bragging at all,” Pete said coolly. “I’m just not worried, that’s all. I mean, what happens if my designs aren’t the absolute best thing everyone has ever seen? The kids still go into the arena to die, anyway.”

Saph sighed. “Pietrus, this is the way it is. You need to get over it,” she snapped, her consonants crisp. “Why do you even care? It’s not like you know them, or anything. Besides, they’re going in there so _you_ don’t have to. You should be _grateful_.”

He was about to launch into an explanation about how he shouldn’t have to know someone to care about their pointless, gruesome death, to be moved by it, but he realized it wouldn’t matter. Saph was a Capitol Citizen, first and foremost. She’d risen to the top echelon of her craft through sheer determination to be there, and she didn’t want her boat rocked. Not even by her best friend.

“I suppose I should,” he muttered. “Anyway, as you say, I have my work cut out for me. I gotta go.”

He hung up without saying goodbye, then gave a heavy sigh of his own and looked out on the Capitol. _Would her opinion change if it were me going in that arena? What if it were her sister, her cousin, her teacher? Would she still be so grateful she didn’t have to go herself?_

He thought about Patrick again—the blush on his cheeks, his smooth, porcelain skin, his bright lips and color-changing blue-hazel eyes. The complete opposite of himself, and he was… well, he was beautiful. Pete couldn’t bear the thought of someone like that having to fight, being covered in blood and having his humanity ripped from him, whether or not he survived. He wanted to help him, keep him safe, keep him from losing whatever moves him to tears, whatever makes him kiss his mother’s hand and hug a friend.

The Reaping for the rest of the Districts played on his screen, one by one, and he sat and watched, but he wrote furiously while he did, barely even registering the rest of the program.

**_I thought of angels_ **   
**_Choking on their halos_ **   
**_Get them drunk on rosewater_ **   
**_See how dirty they can get them_ **   
**_Pulling out their fragile teeth_ **   
**_And clip their tiny wings_ **   
**_Anything you say can and will be used against you_ **   
**_So only say my name, it will be held against you_ **   
**_If heaven’s grief brings hell’s reign_ **   
**_Then I’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday_ **

_I’d give anything to go back even one day and save you from this. I’d undo all of it and destroy everyone who’d try to hurt you, Patrick,_ Pete thought as fresh tears blurred his vision. _Maybe Saph is right. Maybe I should just be grateful instead of driving myself crazy like this over someone I don’t even know, no matter how pretty he is._

But even as he lay awake with a hand on himself later that night, it was Patrick’s eyes he saw, blue-green like the lakes of his District, and it was his face he saw, flushed hot with blood like his own was as he came.


	6. Chapter 6

While Patrick and Rosaleen were saying their tearful goodbyes, Pete was crying, too. He cried from guilt over finding any kind of pleasure in the stricken face of that boy, harmless and private though it might have been. He cried for what was to come: their inevitable brutalization, and for at least one of them, death. He hated to even think in such a way, but if he were a betting man, he would bet that Rosaleen would outlast Patrick. She looked strong, both physically and mentally, in a way that Patrick just… didn’t. He looked sweet, scared, and soft.

Not that any of these things were at all bad; in fact, these were all things Pete had always rather liked in a man. He himself was so dark, conflicted, tortured by his own thoughts, that he wanted a partner who was stable, comforting, and kind. Patrick seemed to radiate kindness, warmth, and a steady hand. That had been the train of thought that had led his cock to harden as he’d lain wide awake after the Reaping, and whether right or wrong, he’d gotten himself off to the thought of this poor young man, this  _victim_ , comforting  _him_ , as though Pete were in any way deserving of anything from him, least of all that.

And so he’d cried himself to sleep, racked with guilt and fear, but Pete knew it was nothing compared to what the Tributes were facing.

******

Patrick tried not to cry, he really, really did. He hugged his mother and Hayley, who had wormed her way into their antechamber. His eyes stung and his vision blurred, but he bit the inside of his cheek and forbade a single actual tear from falling. As soon as his mother brushed his hair from his face and looked at him with that tender, loving expression only mothers really know how to pull, it was a wash. Patrick’s face crumpled and he bawled like a baby, palms sweating and body shaking with fear.

“That’s all,” came the rough admonition from the Peacekeeper who barged in. He took Patrick’s arm and yanked him out of Patricia’s grasp as she wailed his name again.

Her voice was muffled by the slamming door as Patrick was roughly led onto the train to the Capitol, Rosaleen pushed in right after him.

The interior of the chamber was sleek, polished, with bright accents and a table full of food.

_ Food.  _ Literally everywhere. Plates full of things Patrick could never hope to identify, but it all smelled amazing.

“Well, well, here we all are, then,” Cessna chirruped, clapping her hands. “Eat up, go on. It’s all for you, courtesy of the Capitol in thanks for your sacrifice.”

Patrick pulled his lips back between his teeth and bit down as hard as he could while he surveyed the table. He shouldn’t, he knew. He shouldn’t touch a single bite of anything the Capitol offered as though it were a fair exchange for his whole life. Rosaleen looked as if she were having the same internal debate.

“Thinking of going on a hunger strike?” a sardonic voice cut through Patrick’s thoughts. He and Rosaleen jumped and whirled around to see a slender, hard-faced woman with dark, spiky hair and wide-set brown eyes. She bit into a leg of chicken and wiggled it mockingly at them. “Don’t bother. You’ll just get weak and sick and die sooner and more miserably.” She swallowed and took another huge bite, then washed it down with a gulp of white liquor. “So, go on. Eat up. You know you want to.”

“Ah, yes, well, Paxton, Rosemarie, this is Johanna Mason, Victor of last year’s Games, and… your Mentor,” Cessna introduced, trailing off in disdain as she fluffed her seemingly immovable mint-green wig.

“Oh, hibbledy-dibbledy, whatever shall we do with this hideously uncouth person? This simply will not do,” Johanna mocked in a faux Capitol accent, flapping her hands about as though in panic (and flinging bits of poultry as she did so). She laughed as she sat, put her feet up on the table, and crossed her ankles. She was wearing knee-high leather boots, and Cessna winced at the sight. “Well, I might not be much for table manners, but at least I know your names.” She cocked an eyebrow. “ _Patrick, Rosaleen,_  I’m sorry you’re here.” Her tone was biting, but there was a thread of real regret in it. “But seriously, you might as well enjoy the days you have left, so, eat up,” she repeated, then helped herself to a hunk of bread.

Cessna gave a weak chuckle. “As clever as Ms. Mason is, I have my doubts that she will be much of a Mentor,” she said pointedly.

Now, Johanna dropped her food jumped up. “Hey, Cesspool—” 

“Cess _na_ ,” the Escort corrected.

“I stand by my statement,” the Victor retorted with a smirk, “and I didn’t win by being clever, or classy. I won by being ruthless and brutal.” She picked up a serrated knife and pointed it menacingly at Cessna. “I won because I have no scruples, no compunctions, and no one left to be good for. My family is dead, my lover is dead, and my womb is dead, so I literally have nothing to live for. That means I have nothing to avoid dying for, or to avoid killing for.” She turned waved the knife back and forth between the two Tributes. “You two are soft. You have families, friends, probably a cute boy,” she looked knowingly from Rosaleen to Patrick, “or two.”

Patrick flushed crimson and looked away. Johanna grinned wickedly.

Rosaleen used the momentary distraction to grab Johanna’s wrist, slam it on the table, and knock the knife free. It bounced to the floor, and Patrick immediately stepped back. Rosaleen picked it up and held it backhanded with her elbow out and turned her stance so that she was sideways, knees bent slightly.

She spoke through gritted teeth, eyes wide. “My father taught me to defend myself. My mother taught me to be proud enough to want to defend myself. Don’t you tell me my family makes me soft.” Johanna folded her arms and looked at her appraisingly, and Rosaleen relaxed, but she didn’t put the knife down.

Patrick watched all of this with wide, horrified eyes. Johanna seemed to him to be proof of a truth he was already afraid of: even if you win, the Games still kill you; you never really leave the arena.

“Not bad,” the Victor drawled, seeming semi-impressed. She turned and retrieved her chicken leg. “Not bad at all. What can you do, sweet stuff?” She wiped her hands on a napkin and turned expectantly to Patrick.

“I, um, I chop down trees. Like, all day, every day, and I haul the wood. But I don’t fight. I never have.” He chewed his lip and looked at the floor.

Johanna nodded. “OK, so you’re strong. And you have this… young, angelic face working for you. Can you throw an ax?”

“A little. Some of the guys would have competitions for fun, and I tried a couple of times, but…” Patrick shrugged.

Johanna raised her eyebrows expectantly. “But? But what?”

“They...” he sighed. “They stopped letting me join them. The men of my District don’t take kindly to me.”

“But were you any good?” she pressed, ignoring the potentially painful subject of Patrick’s social failures.

Patrick nodded. “Bested Reggie Gilford once.” He smirked at the memory of that cur’s fallen face seeing Patrick’s ax right in the bullseye.

“See? That’s something!” she said with false cheeriness as she clapped Patrick’s shoulder. “Now, come on, eat up. Like I said, you don’t help yourself at all by starving.”

He and Rosaleen sat, and Patrick chanced a glance at Cessna. She was at the head of the table with her hands folded, primly following the exchange with wide, surprised eyes. Patrick couldn’t help noticing even her eyes were tinted mint green. He gave a sheepish shrug and tucked into some creamy pasta dish that basically tasted like cheese and Heaven, while Rosaleen had a steaming bowl of beef stew and a massive hunk of that crusty baguette Johanna had sampled.

Cessna relaxed her features and gave a little smile and a shrug, as if to say, _Oh, well, I guess it’s alright, then._

Patrick looked out the windows of the train, knowing nothing was alright. _Even if I win, I don’t win. Not really._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Patrick finally meet in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking some liberties with the way Prep Teams and Tributes meet/get all styled up, so bear with me. It's a fictional universe. I can do that, I reckon.

When the train finally arrived in the Capitol, Patrick tried not to be impressed with the way everything seemed to sparkle and shine, drawing his eye in every direction. People in bright colors laughed and chatted and sipped drinks out of enormous-looking cups as they strolled down the sidewalks, in no hurry to get anywhere, just soaking in the sunshine and enjoying each other’s company.

Rosaleen managed to stay stone-faced as she looked around, but Patrick knew some of his astonishment was showing as he gaped at the buildings, the glinting glass windows, and the Citizens.

_They’re so calm_ , he thought. _They’re having the time of their lives in a beautiful city while we starve and die._

That realization set his jaw and took the awe out of his eyes. When he chanced a look around again, it looked more like a gilded cage, and the Capitol Citizens like animals who didn’t even know they were trapped. Still, Patrick thought that this would have been preferable to the prison he’d grown up in, and the one in which he now found himself.

The three of them were immediately greeted inside one of the buildings by a team of strangers in garish, clashing outfits of fuchsia, red, and lavender. Patrick was trying to parse out whether these were “sirs” or “ma’ams” (if only so he would know how to address them without offending them), when he saw at the center of them was a smaller, delicate-looking, positively _stunning_ man in a costume of black trimmed with gold and burnt orange. His black, thick hair fell into his face, striped with shiny gold to match his clothes. When he pushed his fringe back, he revealed a caramel complexion, high cheekbones, a bright smile, and unnaturally black eyes. He almost looked like one of the autumnal straw dolls Patrick’s mother would make for him when he was a little boy.

_I’m not much more than a boy now_ , he thought ruefully, but was brought out of his reverie when Cessna rushed between the Tributes and the strangers to speak.

“Patrick, Rosaleen, this is your Style team,” she lilted, pointing out each person as she introduced them: “Ridge Tsosie, Sylvana Haile, Nerys Quen, and your lead Stylist, Pietrus Wentz.”

The dark man laughed and gave a nod of his head. “Just call me Pete,” he said graciously.

Patrick felt like his spine had turned to goo at the sound of his gravelly voice. His face felt hot, and he knew he was noticeably blushing. On top of that, he was still totally nonplussed as to how to greet the rest of the Stylists, so he refrained from saying anything to them. Rosaleen took the same tack, only nodding curtly to them.

“Well,” Cessna sighed, obviously sensing some tension, “I’ll just leave you all to get acquainted. Dinner will be in a little over an hour.”

She glided away with a pained perma-smile on her face, leaving the Tributes and the Stylists to look around the sparse white and silver room awkwardly.

Pete put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “So,” he began, “I’ll just skip any awkward formalities and ask Rosaleen go with Sylvana and Nerys for measurements. Patrick, if you’d follow Ridge and me, please?”

The two Tributes exchanged a look before warily parting company. Patrick privately wondered whether they’d still consider gender as some kind of modesty touchpoint if they knew the thoughts he was having right now. Pete and Ridge seemed impossibly beautiful to him—pretty in an almost androgynous way—and he definitely wanted to know what it would be like to kiss someone like Pete (or just Pete, really), but he also suddenly felt very plain in their presence. Unmade, unkempt, blotchy, short, wide, mousy… just so unbelievably _ordinary_.

_Because I’m expendable_ , he thought, and sighed.

He saw Pete turn his head slightly, seeming like he wanted to look over his shoulder at Patrick, but then face forward again. They entered another mostly neutral room of white, grey, and silver, with huge windows. It was furnished with mannequins, a desk with a sketchpad and colored pencils on it, and a worktable draped with swatches of vibrant fabric. Patrick noted scissors sitting next to a large cutting board with a guillotine-style cropping blade, as well as an array of sewing needles and threads.

His panicked mind was racing. _I could grab the scissors, or even a needle; I could get them in the eyes, get one of their hands under that blade…_

“Patrick?” Pete’s gentle query cut through his thoughts, and when Patrick snapped to attention, he saw what appeared to be concern. He shook his head, but said nothing. “Come on. You’ve got a ‘something’ look.”

Suddenly furious that this Capitol cur would even dare to presume he knew anything about him, he narrowed his eyes at the Stylist. “And why should I tell you?”

The black eyes dropped to the floor immediately. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Pietrus,” Ridge said in a warning tone.

Pete didn’t look up as he turned and drew the curtains, leaving only the electric lighting in the room. It was a bit harsh to Patrick’s eyes, which were so used to only natural light or flame. He squinted and rubbed at them with his fingers.

“OK, you’ll need to undress, Patrick,” Pete said softly, almost tenderly.

Patrick got that odd feeling again, like his spine were up and quitting on him, but it was quickly replaced by cold fear. He looked back and forth between the two other men. “Why?” he spat, suspicious.

The dark man stepped closer. “Just so I can measure you. To make sure your clothes fit?” When Patrick didn’t budge or even soften his darting gaze. Pete sighed heavily. “OK.” He turned to his associate. “Ridge, would you excuse us, please?”

“What?” the other Stylist gritted out, incredulous. “You can’t just kick me out of here, Wentz.”

“I’m not ‘kicking you out’, _Tsosie_ ,” he retorted, mocking Ridge’s biting tone. “The two of us here with him is obviously a little much for him to feel safe, especially without clothes on, and one of us has to stay and measure him, so guess who it’s going to be?” Pete had advanced a little on his team member as he spoke.

Ridge rolled one hand in front of himself and bowed deeply. “As you wish, O Captain my Captain,” he mocked, then stormed out.

Pete closed his eyes and sighed again, then turned back to his male Tribute. “Now, let’s try this again, OK?” He cleared his throat and looked Patrick in the eyes. “Mr. Stumph, would you please remove your clothing so I may take your measurements?”

Patrick blinked slowly several times, completely puzzled. “What is this?”

“A fitting,” the Stylist replied. “I can’t make your clothes if I don’t know what size you are.”

“Well, you could, but… I suppose I don’t need any help contending for Panem’s Least Attractive Tribute.” Patrick let out a slow, shaky breath, and began by kicking off his shoes, but then paused as he reached for the collar of his tunic. He chewed the inside of his cheek, his face flushing, before just wincing and pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. That done, he just barreled on and shucked his pants, then stood there with his hands folded in front of himself, shifting his weight back and forth uneasily.

The cold floor under the soles of his bare feet was the most disconcerting thing for him, until he saw a flicker of something unidentifiable in Pete’s face as he approached with a measuring tape in one hand.

Pete clenched his jaw tightly to avoid letting it drop open in utter astonishment. He had to remain professional. This was a _Tribute_ , for sodding out loud. Still, he was utterly perfect, to Pete’s eyes. His skin was like peaches and cream, and he was blushing almost feverishly from his crown all the way to his collarbones. His messy, fine red hair looked hastily wet down against his head, except for a single cowlick back on his crown that arched up off the scalp and then bent lazily down again. His lip and chin were clean-shaven, but he had fuzzy strawberry sideburns that suggested either an attempt to seem older or a hurried dismissal of the effort to shave them.

His broad, muscular arms and shoulders betrayed the years spent chopping and hauling wood, despite the last remaining baby fat that clung to his belly and hips. He clasped his hands in front of his crotch, shifting his weight back and forth, which made his legs flex and relax alternately, and Pete swallowed hard when he saw Patrick’s thighs clenching and unclenching almost of their own accord.

_He’s a child, you ass,_ he scolded himself. _You’re five years his senior. And you’re dressing him up to die, don’t forget._

“Um, are you ever going to do anything, or are you just going to stare?” Pete blinked and came back to himself to find Patrick frowning at him, hands now shifting up and down the opposite arms, trying to cover everything up at once.

“Oh. Yes, of course,” Pete mumbled, and attempted a weak chuckle. He made quick work of measuring the Tribute’s arms, waist, chest, neck, wrists, head, and then steeled himself to measure his legs. He got down on one knee and carefully stretched the tape along the width and breadth of Patrick’s feet, then very gingerly and with hands that he kept from trembling only by sheer determination, he assessed the outer leg length and circumference of his calves.

His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and his hands were warm as he measured around first one thigh and then the other at the widest point, and then the ever-awkward inseam. He’d never measured a Tribute before, but he’d had to do it for friends and acquaintances, and it never failed to render strange reactions. Most people were ticklish, and would twitch and giggle at the contact. Others simply bit their lip, held their breath, and tried not to either wince or get turned on by their friend touching them somewhere so sensitive (or, really, more sensitive-adjacent, but still, the touch was fairly intimate).

Pete watched Patrick’s face as much as he could while he laid the tape along first one inner leg, then the other. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were closed, and one cheek seemed gathered inward, as though he were biting on it. He inhaled sharply and drew his pretty, full lips back between his teeth when Pete’s fingers found the upper junction of his groin. He remained like this, looking almost pained, until Pete finished measuring and stood up again.

“OK, that should be it,” Pete said, trying to keep his tone calm and even.

Patrick let out a breath and opened his eyes. “Can I get some clothes now?” he asked in an irritated tone. In reality, he was trying his best to mask and bury every inappropriate thought that crossed his mind the entire time Pietrus Wentz was touching his naked body.

_Stop it,_ he chided himself. _Stop thinking about kissing and caressing and possibly making love with this Capitol Stylist who’s probably just interested in watching you bash in some girl’s head before taking an arrow in the eye, or something._

Wordlessly, Pete turned, went to his table, and picked up what looked like a formless piece of cloth, but was actually a robe. It was grey, trimmed with bright emerald green, and Pete held it behind Patrick expectantly. After a skeptical glance, the Tribute relented and put his arms in the sleeves so Pete could pull it up onto his shoulders. When he moved to Patrick’s front and reached for the lapels, Patrick stepped back. “I can dress myself, if strictly in the mechanical sense,” he snipped.

Unable to stop himself, Pete burst into laughter. Patrick felt his anger reaching a boiling point, tinging the edges of his vision red. How dare this privileged man-baby with his stupidly pretty face actually be _laughing right now_?

Pete immediately calmed himself when he saw Patrick’s expression. He’d also forgotten about closing his robe himself, so furious was he, so Pete set about closing it, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not mocking you, I swear. That was simply the most perfect thing you could ever say, ever in the history of the universe.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?” Patrick queried suspiciously.

“You seem very self-deprecating, and that remark just was so… so _you_. I just loved it.” He finished tying the cloth belt in an expert knot, leaving a deep v open that showed Patrick’s small, sparse patch of golden chest hair. He sighed contentedly, stepped back, and surveyed his work. Satisfied, he smiled and gave a firm nod. “Yes, perfect.”

Patrick looked down and immediately clutched the lapels of the robe closed with a fist. “No, not perfect.” He layered the sides of the garment firmly closed to his neck under the belt and folded his arms across his chest. “That’s an improvement,” he groused. “And by the way, you don’t know me. Don’t presume that you do.”

Pete’s smile fell at that. He pursed his lips and nodded mutely as he cast his black eyes around the room, hoping that something appropriate and brilliant to say would come to him, so he could lighten the situation somehow.

Nothing came.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He looked into Patrick’s blue-green eyes, so like the lakes he sometimes had visited with his family in warm weather, and idly wondered if Patrick had ever even gone away to a lake. If he had ever gone away _anywhere_.

“You’re… sorry…” Patrick repeated slowly, carefully, as though he couldn’t fully understand what was being said to him.

Pete nodded. “I am,” he confirmed. “I shouldn’t speak so freely with a Tribute, I suppose. I just…” he paused, thought a moment, and then sighed. “I just thought that… I wish I could make things… better. For you. And, everyone, of course. But I’m just a Stylist. I don’t even know where to begin. So, obviously, I can make you the talk of the Games, but…” he leaned in close and whispered, “I wish I could save you. I wish you didn’t have to do this.” He straightened up then, and resumed his normal tone. “I thought, maybe, if I were friendly, a bit soft, familiar, I don’t know, I thought it might help you a little in the meantime.”

“Then why are you helping them?” Patrick bit out around clenched teeth. “Why are you participating in the Games at all, if what you say is true?”

_If what you say is true._ Pete’s mind snagged on that particular word choice. _Of course, he doesn’t trust me. Why would he? He doesn’t know me, any more than I can purport to know him._ He squinted and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to collect his thoughts. “Right,” he said. “So, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, and any attempt at kindness on my part is going to be seen as pretense by you, correct?”

“Give me one reason why it should be otherwise?” Patrick challenged, tilting his chin up. Pete would have been utterly, stupidly in love with that face if it weren’t so angry at him right now. Hell, he probably was anyway.

He shrugged. “I suppose I can’t, at least nothing concrete. I can only tell you that I had hoped getting closer to the Games would further my… goals,” he finished, choosing the word carefully. “It’s just… obviously more complicated than I thought.”

“Yes, the matter of the wholesale slaughter of children and starving most of Panem is most definitely _so very_ complicated.” Patrick put a hand on his hip and cocked it out as he spoke, eyes narrowed and jaw tight.

Yeah, Pete pretty much wanted to bend him over his desk and take him right then.

He smirked and rolled his eyes instead. “The issue isn’t complicated, Patrick. The logistics are, though. But I’d just as soon not have this discussion now.” He tried to widen his eyes meaningfully at Patrick and prayed he understood. “Anyway, just trust me when I say I’m sorry for everything you have to go through. I wish I knew how to make things different for you.”

“You could start with some clean clothes?” Patrick snarked.

Pete smiled and nodded. “Fair enough. But while I throw you together some basics, you’ll have to see the rest of the team for waxing and grooming.”

“Waxing?” Patrick cried. “I have nothing to wax!”

“They’ll find something,” Pete said with a wink and a smirk. He bit his lip to keep from adding, _I wish I could watch._

Patrick winced and palmed his forehead. He wanted to be mad about that, be mad about absolutely everything no matter how well intended, but there was something about Pete that struck him as… oddly sincere. Like, he couldn’t be dishonest if he tried, or something. Plus, the way he was biting his lush lower lip and looking at him right now was downright lascivious.

_It’s almost like he’s flirting with me_ , he assessed with wonder, _but he’s probably just trying to calm my nerves, or whatever._

With a heavy sigh, the latest of many, he gave Pete one last bewildered look and went out to meet his hairless fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For sodding out loud" is something I made up and is meant to be a misunderstanding/mistranslation of 'for sobbing out loud' and the British slang term 'sodding', sort of how they say 'morphling' instead of 'morphine' and so on.


End file.
